


Just Live

by orphan_account



Series: Shelter [5]
Category: Final Space (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, the struggles of little cato's health issues, tw for child sickness?, tw for hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Every time they ended up at the hospital, Avocato wrote in a fever. A description. A description of his son, what he looked like, what he had done before the hospital trip, what he had done before the coughing and the choking and the screaming. A description of his son and who his son was, in a fit of dread for the day his son would cease to be anything at all."





	Just Live

How many times has he been here before? Surrounded by four white walls, sitting beside a white-legged bed topped in white sheets, with a white pillow and a white mattress. 

_ The only color in this room is orange. It’s the glow of fire in a sea of clouds, reaching heights nobody thought-  _

The pen stops. This is stupid. So very stupid. Nobody is reaching heights in here. Nobody is getting any taller, any healthier, any more awake. 

The only thing getting taller is the list of problems. 

First, it was a cough -- a gurgle-y sound, and then a loud sound, and then a hacking sound. Then it was the headaches and the heart-aches, and the screaming late at night, the kinds of screams that always woke his parents, always. And consequently it became the nights Avocato was awake, fruitlessly bouncing that ball of fur while it screamed in pains that they couldn’t put a finger on. And then it was the E.R at five-fifteen A.M, the doctors around his bed until eight-o-nine.

And now it was the lonely white walls and the soulless sound of the heart monitor. Now it was the silence, the choice between either the sight of his borderline-comatose boy or of the notebook in his lap. 

Every time they ended up at the hospital, Avocato wrote in a fever. A description. A description of his son, what he looked like, what he had done before the hospital trip, what he had done before the coughing and the choking and the screaming. A description of his son and who his son was, in a fit of dread for the day his son would cease to be anything at all. 

Time doesn’t stand still. It keeps going, unkindly. The sun rises. Maybe it will set and they will still be there. Maybe the clock will strike midnight and his son will be awake. Maybe the clock will strike midnight and his son will be dead. 

For now there is just the four white walls and the hospital bed and the silence. For now there is just a heart monitor and the form of a broken boy that used to dance around the house, a boy who was teaching himself to code and make french toast despite only turning seven a month ago. A boy whose eyes lit up like the sun whenever either of his parents came home from work. A boy whose smile could power the entire world. A boy who was everything despite calling himself nothing at all. 

He’s weak and he’s tired. But he refuses to sleep.

He drops the notebook on the floor. Little Cato, usually a light sleeper, gives no response. 

Hands clasp over smaller hands.

A thumb rubs over the warm skin, as if such a touch has the ability to resuscitate. 

Tears push past the brim, and he doesn’t fight. He has no strength to. 

_ “Live.” _

His eyes are glued to his son’s and still they don’t open. 

“Just live.” 


End file.
